This Thursday, one night only: the Poets Jazz Trio at the Social Justice Center, 33 Central Ave in Albany. Poets Jason Crane (poems, sax, percussion), Dan Wilcox (sax, percussion) and Tom Corrado (bass) will perform a 20-minute set of jazz and Jason’s poetry. There will also be an open mic hosted by Dan Wilcox. The shindig starts at 7:30 p.m. Be there!
I contacted the poetry journal Meat For Tea about a submission I’d sent and hadn’t heard back on. They responded to tell me it was published in their last issue, but they’d forgotten to notify me.
You can read “North Greenbush To Albany” in Meat For Tea Vol. 4 Issue 2 by ordering a physical copy or a $5 PDF version here.
UPDATE: Upon closer inspection, it turns out that my poem “Origins” is also in the issue.
I had already asked you three times
you’d wisely declined
I was too young, too unproven
played the saxophone in a latin jazz band
you repaired houses for the poor
we each made barely enough to pay the rent
the fourth time was under an oak tree
at your mother’s house
you finally agreed, throwing caution
to the Pennsylvania wind
we were back East on a rare trip
to see our families, to display one another
that tree had been there for years and years
since the fields next to the dairy farm
were turned into a housing development
for upwardly mobile college professors
whose daughters spoke two languages
and traveled the world on the way to good lives
no one thought we’d last
they all said I was too young, too unproven
played the saxophone in a latin jazz band
couldn’t provide for you
all those beautiful 1950s sentiments
born of monochrome evenings with the Cleavers
but under that oak tree —
a sign of stability, of permanence —
you agreed to place a bet on the long shot
I held your hands as a stray leaf fell,
like your resistance, to rest
in the lush green grass behind the houses
after you said yes
we traveled north to my parents’ house
my mother gave me a wedding ring
that had been her grandmother’s
granting us her blessing
even though she doubted our future
the oak tree is gone now,
cut down by your mother
all these years I’d thought she hated what it represented
only found out this week that it was damaged
in an ice storm and had to be cut before it fell
so many things misunderstood
shimmering cymbal rises off the stage like heat from the pavement
I’m at a table near the band, drowning my sorrows in a glass of water
or at least drowning, anyway
this is one of those days when I wish I drank, something strong and obliterating
that would wash it all away like a sand castle falling to high tide
I come back to reality for a moment while the bass player looks for a chart
a course through the tune so he won’t get lost
I wish it were that easy
these are the times that try men’s souls, then stomp them with boots made of money
and unfulfilled potential and disappointment
two tables away a guy is talking loudly, so the band turns up and he talks louder
so the band turns up and he’s shouting, and eventually an old man in a natty suit
leans over from the next table and tells the guy to “please shut the fuck up”
maybe it’s the language, maybe it’s the old man’s audacity, but it works
a hero is born
saves me the trouble of driving my rented U-Haul truck right through the front window
smashing the moron to a pulp, smearing the carpet
with his like-new brains
there’s no way to summarize all the things you are on paper
but that doesn’t stop people from trying — my life is a bulleted list
in 12-point Arial or 10-point Times New Roman if I’m feeling professional
I’m bored and terrified, can’t focus
lose the form of the song, even an easy one
At the Mobil station on the corner of Quail and New Scotland,
an obese man in a tank top delivers a lawnmower from the trunk
of his NASCAR-stickered beater to a young man in the latest
summer fashions. The obese man plops back into the driver’s seat,
reaches an arm through the open window to haul the door shut,
cranks up the radio, loudly injecting a surprising R&B track
into the first night of summer. Did the Indian or Pakistani or Sri Lankan
cashier in the Mobil station ever imagine himself here?
Did he play soccer or cricket as a child back home, dreaming
of the night when he’d sell Cheetos and Double Chocolate Milanos
to another obese man in dirty shorts, while R&B blared
and nervous SUV drivers stopped on the way to the suburbs?
Did any of us dream of this night? We sat on our mothers’ laps,
had our backs rubbed, dreamed of being paleontologists
or marine biologists or superheroes, not of schlepping to the gas station
to buy crap before the Red Sox game. In case you hadn’t guessed,
I’m the Second Man, one before Welles and not that many pounds off,
selling no wine before my time, plodding past the young and beautiful people
at the bars to get to the late-night sanctuary of those with no place else to go.
How the fuck did this happen? Where did the dumpster in my driveway
come from? Who put all those memories in there?
I want my mother, or at least the possibility she represented.
I want to go home, but I’m already there, and there’s a dumpster
in the driveway, and in a few days the men will come and haul it away.
learned new languages & wooed exotic birds down from the trees
were of sound mind & body, were of sound body & mind
encountered the Kraken & debated the pronunciation of his name,
only to discover that he was a she, & really quite wonderful at chess
were undaunted in the face of adversity
sat beside the wine-dark sea, telling lies & braiding hempen ropes
signed their names in the guestbook at a hotel on the edge of an active volcano,
the ash settling slowly about their shoulders
could see the valley below, but could not state its true name
sailed across the ocean blue in a hastily built marshmallow canoe
were rescued from certain death by a one-legged man who knew whereof he spoke
are as real as you or I
exist purely for our amusement
do not exist at all
McLemore, Fabricatore & Buttonwood
will be back soon, will demand answers, will show slides of their trip
to an uninterested audience in the local library
will realize that the road is better than the rest stop & will start out again
across the grassy plain
I wrote this poem today while sitting on a rock along the Housatonic River in Connecticut. The photo below, linked from this site, is of the exact spot where this poem was written. That seems like a remarkable stroke of luck, but actually this spot is one of few along this part of the Housatonic with easy access from Route 7. You can click the photo to see a larger version.
Housatonic Reverie
This is my river, the Housatonic.
This water flows through my land.
I learned to walk near its banks,
Played on a street that bore its name.
I had to turn around and come back to find it –
give up the illusion of forward motion –
to sit on this rock and hear the water’s voice
singing a long-lost lullaby.
Tadpoles swim in a pool sheltered by stones.
They, too, will learn to walk
along the banks of the Housatonic.
Those, that is, who survive
the difficult road to maturity,
a road whose casualties
line the shoulder
like so many car-struck deer.
I put out my right foot to steady myself,
place it on a rock that wobbles;
a handy metaphor to remind me of the
uncertainty of even the most solid objects.
Down the river a ways, a hawk makes silent circles.
The occasional car covers up the water’s voice,
but its song always returns, summoning me
home to my river, my land, my life.
